


Birds Of A Feather

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-08 05:46:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: An SSR secretary observes Agent Carter and her visitor (who seems suspiciously familiar).





	Birds Of A Feather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Redrikki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redrikki/gifts).



The thing about being an SSR secretary is that you see a _lot_ of weird things. The field agents don't think we know one end of a gun from another (and to be honest, I _don't_ know one end of a gun from another), but we see quite a lot of what's going on. I was hired right after the whole California debacle, when no-one knew which way was up, I tidied up after that mess with Agent Carter's brother, and goodness knows I'm the one who has to keep up with all the paperwork every time that Underwood character and Agent Carter decide to whatever they do.

So the woman who came to see Agent Carter one evening shouldn't have come as a surprise, but it did.

See, I was at my desk (not in the offices of the field agents, of course, but in the weird in-between area between the entrance and the lab and the offices; not prime real estate, but still better than the telephone jobs) when this lady walks in.

And the thing is, I swear I know her from _somewhere_. She's familiar in the way that people on posters are. I think I've actually seen her on a poster, somewhere, but I can't remember where.

“Excuse me, miss, could you tell me where to find Agent Carter?”

I look up; yes, she's talking to me. “Through the door across from my desk.” I probably should have asked for ID before I told her that, but Alice at the front let her in so she must be fine. (Alice has also let Underwood in, but I get the feeling that's a different story. No-one's told me, though, so I don't ask.) And if she's not fine, the people with training can damn well deal with her themselves.

 

* * *

 

 

I'm settling back into my work when Agent Carter comes up to my desk, the woman trailing behind her. She's taking in the SSR offices, and she looks—well, at least she doesn't look as unimpressed as most outsiders who walk through the SSR's blessed doors. (Apparently, we were much better outfitted once upon a time when we were with the Army. Not so much any more, though.)

“I'm sorry to interrupt you, Doris, but I need to sign out one of the classified files for a little while.”

Classified files? The SSR hired me partly to oversee the new filing system, because they'd overhauled everything after California, and someone had the brains to realize that leaving highly sensitive files lying and hoping that the CLASSIFIED stamped on them would deter any agents looking to poke around. wasn't going to end well. (The Michael Carter debacle proved that to high heaven and back, of course. Someone was saying 'I told you so' somewhere in the office then, I'm sure.) “Do you know the file you're looking for, or?”

“Protocol Charlie Able Peter How, subdivision Theta Three Sixty,” Agent Carter rattles off.

I pause for a moment. “I'm sorry?”

“Theta Three Sixty subdivision for Charlie Able Peter How,” Agent Carter repeats.

That's the highest level of clearance for SSR files. I'm not sure that Chief Thompson has that level of clearance, let alone Agent Carter. These are the only files that were actually properly secured when I came in, and I'm not allowed to so much as breathe in their direction.

Agent Carter must have seen my thoughts in my face. “I do have the clearance, Doris. It's all official.”

“Oh, I—” I cut myself off before I can say anything more. “Just let me look at the lists.” ('The lists' are two huge folders, locked away securely under my desk and with copies in a couple of vaults in locations that I'm not privy to knowledge of. They're records of the placement of high-clearance files and the copies of those files, and I'm not even supposed to touch them unless someone tells me one of the passkeys, which I've memorized.)

It's there, clear as day. Agent Margaret Carter, cleared for File Protocol Charlie Able Peter How, subdivision Theta Three Sixty, alongside Colonel Chester Phillips (retired), Mr. Howard Stark, and Captain Steven Rogers (deceased). There's the key to the safe, too, when I look at the file, shining at me with a silver light.

“Identification, please, Agent Carter.” Which is frankly stupid, but I can't hand over the key without verifying that Agent Carter is, in fact, Agent Carter.

Agent Carter knows this, too; she gives me her SSR ID, I check it, and then I hand her the key.

The woman's been standing slightly behind Agent Carter all this time, still and silent, but now she smiles at me. Dammit, she seems even _more_ familiar now. I know I know her, but I can't remember from where. I'm pretty sure she's famous though. The kind of famous that Cap is, only everyone knows who Cap is, and I can't figure out, right now, who this woman is.

Oh well. Not the time for that kind of thought. “You have the second key, Agent Carter?”

Agent Carter nods. It's a safety precaution—one key from me and one key from the people allowed to see the file. “Yes.”

“You can go in, then.” Not the general filing room, but the door behind me, the door to which the key is tied around my neck, where the extra-classified files are kept. I unlock the door, but when the woman tries to follow Agent Carter into the room, I stop her. “I'm sorry, ma'am, you can't go in there.”

“I—” the woman begins, but Agent Carter cuts her off.

“I can bring files outside, though, right, Doris?” she calls from inside the room.

I'm actually not sure when it comes to the classified files; the regular ones can just be brought outside, but the classifieds are, obviously, top-secret, so, “Yes, but only where I can see them.” When in doubt, make it up. All good secretaries know this rule.

“Thank you!”

I'm left with the woman staring at me. She's got a kind of unnerving look about her, as if she's seeing right through you with those dark eyes, and, to be honest, she doesn't look quite human. She's unnaturally still, for one, in a way that even Agent Carter can't be still, and she's not blinking, just staring straight ahead. It's a little bit frightening.

Then she seems to shake herself. “My name's Diana. Diana Prince.” She holds out a hand to shake, and normally people don't shake hands with the secretary, but it'd be rude to leave her hanging, so I take it.

The skin of her hand is—honestly, I expected it to be soft, because whatever else she is, she looks like a lady. But she has weird calluses to match the strange note of her voice (not quite an accent, but _not_ not an accent either), and in a weird place, too, not the normal calluses someone would get in the garden or in a factory. Then I realize that if I'm noticing the position of her calluses I've held on too long, and I let go hastily.

Miss Prince doesn't seem to notice any strangeness on my part, though. She's peering, instead, at the drawing I've pinned up on the side of my desk. “Is this Captain America?”

It's a wonder she's gotten that close to what the drawing actually is of. “No, Wonder Woman. My niece drew it. You don't have to be polite, I know it's nigh-on indecipherable, but she's barely out of diapers so even holding a crayon is brilliant for her.”

“It's a pretty good likeness for an infant's work, then,” Miss Prince says, and I swear I can hear the laugh in her voice. “Especially since she's going off a couple of old photographs in the papers, probably.”

“My sister's Wonder Woman obsession is probably enough fuel,” I demur. “I swear there isn't a photograph—”

I stop. _Wonder Woman._ I've never been big on superheroes, not even Cap, but my sister's Wondy mania is, well, maniac enough that I've seen quite a lot of her, and damn if Miss Prince doesn't look like Wonder Woman. Did she act her in any of the Wondy films, maybe? That's probably where the familiarity is from, and I've just opened my mouth to ask Miss Prince about this when the door opens loudly behind me and Agent Carter comes out, holding a thin looking file.

“I've got the file. I need to stay within your sight, you said, Doris?”

I shut my mouth and nod. I still want to ask, but Agent Carter's brows are drawn. It's best to leave her to her work when she gets like this.

Agent Carter nods sharply and beckons to Miss Prince to follow her; they settle themselves in a corner of the lobby, dragging chairs there. (And damn if Miss Prince doesn't make carrying a heavy wooden chair look easy.)

Still, the lobby is small enough that their voices from where their heads are bent over the file (Miss Prince's slicked-back straight hair in contrast to Agent Carter's curls), shuffling through what looks like various photos and papers.

“...very little information from prisoners, and this was in '45...”

“...blue cube, apparently glowing...”

“...huge amount of energy, apparently, but no-one will tell us more...”

“...Did it go...with Schmidt and—you know...”

This conversation is weird. The SSR is involved in any number of supernatural stuff, but for some reason, it's the stories from the war, from when Cap was alive, about HYDRA and all their looking for power, that creep me out the most. What Agent Carter's doing poking at that stuff I don't know.

“...sorry, Peggy, don't...”

“...anything you know...”

“...didn't have this kind of power in Themyscira...”

Themyscira? Themyscira is where Wonder Woman's supposed to be from, though I always thought that was little more than a legend. (Not that we know that much about Wonder Woman, and the stories don't make much sense at all.) But—

But.

And Miss Prince _looks_ like Wonder Woman. And there's that funniness, too.

“...power source, but anyone could guess that...”

“...Zola wouldn't tell...”

It can't be. Miss Prince _can't_ be Wonder Woman.

“...refusing to help...”

“...told you everything I know...”

“...Steve wouldn't...”

“This has _nothing_ to do with Steve.” Miss Prince's voice is suddenly loud, and if I strain my ears, I can hear it very clearly. “And don't pretend you know _anything_ about Steve, because you don't.”

There's a silence, and not even a whisper of conversation. I don't dare to look up. “Diana. I was talking about Captain America, not—your Steve.” Agent Carter's voice is softer than Miss Prince's, but she enunciates every word, chilly and cold. “And _he_ would and did give everything to defeat Schmidt and make sure he stays defeated.”

And suddenly it seems too private, too personal. I should be working, not eavesdropping. Miss Prince is probably Wonder Woman, but I'm no eavesdropper.

But they're loud, louder than before, now, and I can't block out Miss Prince saying: “Steves of a feather, I guess, Peggy.” There's a pause. “I knew him, too, Peggy, you know. _Your_ Steve. But that doesn't change the fact that I can't help you.”

(And I feel guilty for listening even though I can't help it, now, but. Steve. Wasn't Steve Trevor the person who helped Wonder Woman, back in the first war? I can remember the name from long ago, at least, as someone who was very famous and very brave, and _not_ from Cap. We didn't get to know Cap's name until after he died.)

“Diana.” I didn't know a whisper could be so loud, but I guess you learn new things every day. “Look, I understand. Better than you think, probably, but that doesn't change the fact that I know you know more than you're telling me.”

“I only know what you've told me about this thing—”

“But you _guess_.” If I look up now, I know that Agent Carter's eyebrow is going to be raised and she'll be giving Miss Prince her best unimpressed look. (And her best unimpressed look is, quite frankly, _extremely_ unimpressed.)

“All I can guess is that it's something that's immensely powerful, but an idiot could guess that. And that it's from somewhere—not here, but you've seen enough that you could guess in—” She stops.

I don't want to listen any more. This is too much. They should lower their damn voices.

“Over there, I know.” And Agent Carter's voice is softer, again, but she's still loud. Dammit. “I'm sorry.” And it sounds like it's killing her to say that.

Miss Prince's voice is hard. “It's dangerous, probably, Peggy, and it was—” She stops again. I don't know why.

Agent Carter does, though, apparently. “And it was probably the reason Steve died. I know. You don't have to sugarcoat it for me.” Then, “I'll tell Howard to stop looking for it.”

“Good luck with that. And, you know, if he's still looking for Steve—”

“I _know_ , Diana. But I can't exactly ask him to stop.”

“You wouldn't. I wouldn't either, if it was me. Not if it meant any chance of finding Steve.”

“I—it's not like that. I've accepted—you know what I'm talking about, Diana. He's gone. You knew him, you know what he'd say to Howard. I've told Howard. And. For you it's—”

Agent Carter breaks off again. There's clearly something she doesn't want to say, buy Miss Prince knows anyway, probably, from the way they've been talking.

I can't listen to this. This is too personal, and never mind who Miss Prince is, I don't have any right to listen to Agent Carter's—thing about Cap, or whatever's going on with Miss Prince. Not unless they want me to, and they don't, they've just very clearly forgotten that I'm here. I don't know how to stop them, though, except—

I feel rather proud of myself when I drop the stapler I'm holding on the ground. Loudly.

Both of them jump and I can see from where I'm bending to retrieve the stapler that they're shooting each other nervous, apologetic looks.

At least the sound's enough that they lower their voices. I could probably still hear what they're saying if I try, but. I don't listen to the rest of their conversation and the good-byes before Miss Prince leaves. I'm curious, and I intend to ask Agent Carter about Miss Prince, but I've listened in without permission enough for one day, and they're not being so loud that I can't help but hear them anymore.

When I look up again, it's to the click of the door behind me as Agent Carter comes back from replacing the file in the room behind me. She looks like she's a thousand miles away and I can't blame her; I'd be thinking a mile a minute too if I was part of what sounded like a very interesting conversation.

“Ma'am?” I wouldn't interrupt whatever musings Agent Carter was in the middle of, normally (she's nice enough, nicer than any of the gentlemen agents at any rate, but if you interrupt her in the middle of a thought, she can get scary very, very fast), but. _Wonder Woman._

Agent Carter doesn't start; she never does. She says, calmly, “Yes, Doris?”

“Was that person who came in Wonder Woman?” As soon as the words are out, I wince. I should've found a better way to ask, anything other than a direct question. Because if there's anything that makes Agent Carter shut down fast, I've found through lunchtime conversations, it's other people poking their nose into her business.

Agent Carter looks at me, the kind of uncomfortable look that makes you feel as if you're on stage and a thousand people are staring at you and you just dropped a line. _Not_ a good a feeling.

Then, miracle of miracles, she _smiles_. (And yes, it's not a happy smile, but she smiles.) “Let's just say that Diana Prince does not currently use the name Wonder Woman, and leave it that.”

What's that supposed to mean? “So she's not Wonder Woman?” And there I go again, running my big mouth. “Sorry, I know I'm prying, but Wonder Woman—she hasn't be seen since the war, and—” _It'd be good to know she wasn't dead like Cap,_ I was going to say, but for once I manage to bite my fool tongue in time. “It'd be good to see her up and about, so we know she's not gone for good.”

“I didn't say that she's not Wonder Woman.” Agent Carter smiles again, a real strange smile, like she knows something I don't. “Speaking of which, how is your sister? Did she find her true calling yet?”

We weren't speaking of anything of the sort, but I'm very, very confused, so I let it go. “She wants to be a nurse, now. A nurse! Last week she wanted to be an astronaut. And go to space!” Another thing I find confusing. I was born and bred in New York, and I'm not going to move for love nor money, and I'm not going to bother of getting all those degrees for any fancypants job that I'll have to give up the moment I marry, either.

Agent Carter laughs. “She's, what, eleven? I wanted to be a knight when I was eleven; she'll decide on something when she's older.”

“I hope so,” I say. And then, because someone who may or may not be Wonder Woman might just have stopped by, but I still have piles of papers to check and file: “I'll tell you more at lunch, maybe?”

“Yes, of course.”

Agent Carter's heels click on the floor as she walks away (she walks mighty smooth in those heels, and I've always been jealous), and I get back to my work.

“Doris?”

At Agent Carter's voice, coming from across the lobby, I raise my head. She's turned back to me, and she has a strange look on her face. I don't know what to call it. Wistfulness? Jealousy? No, not jealousy, but—something close. Longing, I guess? I don't know, I'm not the best at reading people. “I do think Wonder Woman will come back one day. Not soon, maybe. The war was—it did different things to different people. We all did terrible things, saw terrible things.” There's grief on her face, and she looks haunted in a way I've never seen her look before. “In one way or another, the war destroyed all of us, even superheroes. And I don't pretend to understand, but something must have driven Wonder Woman into the shadows.”

Her hands are fisting her skirt, and now her voice is definitely not normal, it's the kind of voice that you use when your friend's gotten lucky and won the lottery and you're happy for her, but you wish you'd won, too. I don't understand, but then, there's a lot I don't get. “But she'll be back. Someday.”


End file.
